


wwet an wwild

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alien Biology, Anonymous Sex, Comeplay, Community: kink_bingo, Fisting, Hemospectrum Kink, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here you are, not quite to your sixth wiggling day, and you've managed to seduce an adult who you'd swear is probably twelve sweeps.</p><p>The water shuts off, and he comes back into the coupling room in just a towel. He laughs when he sees you there. "Still here, huh?" he says. "Kinky little thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	wwet an wwild

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because [this picture of Eridan ate my brain](http://mfcappu.tumblr.com/post/15628590918/clothes-are-too-mainstream-and-beds-are-ironically) but I am now too awkward about it to link the artist directly.
> 
> Who is a winner it is me.

Your hands are shaking when you reach for your jacket, off the side of the bed, so you can grab your cigarettes out of the pockets. It's a good kind of shaking, you're pretty sure. You listen to the water running in the next room and light up with trembling fingers and suck in spiced smoke and think, _wow_.

You feel a little sore and achy between your legs, but you were expecting that, and it's not so bad. It's like a souvenir, right? You're sore and you probably have bruises in a few spots and you'll be walking funny, but you're giddy with how proud of yourself you are, so it's fine. You did this on purpose. You tracked down a handsome adult—a complete gutterblood of a landdweller, which is horrible and thrilling—and made him an offer and he took you up on it, and you....

It doesn't sound right to say you pailed, when this was strictly recreational and not at all sloppy. The sheets of the coupling platform are barely stained, and the only thing he's washing off in the trap right now is the lubricating fluid from your nook. You're not developed enough for your seedflap to discharge yet—you were afraid of how he'd react when he found that out, but he seemed to like it—and you didn't get anything inside him to make him spill. So you didn't quite get to pails, but you got pretty much everything _but_ , and that feels like a good reason to be proud of yourself. Here you are, not quite to your sixth wiggling day, and you've managed to seduce an adult who you'd swear is probably twelve sweeps.

The water shuts off, and he comes back into the coupling room in just a towel. He laughs when he sees you there. "Still here, huh?" he says. "Kinky little thing."

He's probably three times your size, broad-shouldered and muscular, with much more impressive scars than you've managed to acquire here on the surface. His horns are fucking _majestic_ , huge and curling, and you'd be jealous if you weren't steadfastly certain that yours will be even cooler in a few sweeps when you've grown into your full size. His eyes glitter bronze when he looks you up and down, and you try not to shiver visibly but it's hard. He's such _trash_ , and you let him screw you, and he's looking at you now like he wants to do it again.

You take another drag on your cigarette, trying to look cool, like you do this all the time and it's no thing. "Wwell, you rented the room for the whole day, didn't you?"

He laughs, dropping his towel on the floor next to his crumpled uniform. Even mostly relaxed his bulge is impressive. You can't believe you actually fit the whole thing up your nook when he was hard. It's mostly dry now, after he's bathed, but it's stirring a little as he swaggers over to the bedside—flushing, thickening, the flesh starting to slick up again.

"You want more, huh, kid?" he asks. He reaches out and runs his fingertips along the edge of one of your fins, then drags his claws lightly over the sensitive back. You shiver, your gills fluttering along your sides as if you could breathe more deeply that way, even this far from the sea. "Let me see your hands," he says.

You hold them up. He takes your cigarette and stubs it out on the bedside table, then folds your hands in his. You feel so small next to him, your fine-boned hands dwarfed by the blunt thickness of his fingers. He wraps his hand around the width of your knuckles, lifts your hand and studies the points of your claws.

"You got somethin in mind?" you ask, because he looks like he's thinking about something in particular.

He brings your hand to his lips and licks the crease between your fingers, slowly, like you taste good. "Ready to go a little further?" he says.

"A course I am," you say. You're tempted to say _I wwas hatched ready_ but you think he'd be more likely to laugh at you than believe it.

"That's my boy," he says, which you're _not_ , but let him think so if it gets him going. He pulls you to your feet, and the sheet across your lap slithers to the floor. "Come on, kid, let's go get in the trap. This bit's going to get messy."

You follow him into the ablution block, and then instead of herding you right into the trap he stops you at the sink, picking up the complimentary claw trimmers they've left there.

"Wwhat, you wwanna givve me a manicure?" you ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

He smirks. "I wanna be prepared," he says. "You got pretty little hands, kid. I wanna get the most out of them." He keeps calling you that. He hasn't asked for your name, any more than you've asked for his. You thought you'd trade names with the troll who took you up on your offer; you were prepared to lie. But there's something sort of exciting about being reminded that he doesn't even think he knows who you are—you're a random half-grown seadweller to him, he's an anonymous brownblooded ruffiannihilator to you, and it's not _personal_.

He trims your claws close, buffs them smooth, and then sucks your fingers into his mouth, the warm pad of his tongue teasing your fingertips, the points of his teeth scraping your knuckles. Your bulge pulses, and you chew on your lip, watching the hungry heat of his eyes. You wonder if he would take your bulge in his mouth. You wonder if your courage would hold out if he offered—his teeth aren't quite as needle-sharp as yours, but they could do plenty of damage in tender places.

"Here, little one," he says, pulling you into the trap with him. The floor of the trap is still wet from his shower, slippery under your feet and then under your knees as he pushes you down. You're eye level with his bulge, and if you thought it looked big before, it's _huge_ from this close up, thick and ridged, oozing lubrication. It smells like copper, where you smell like brine, and you wonder if every blood color is a little different.

You look up past his bulge, up the long muscular length of his torso, to meet his eyes where he looks down at you. "You got brass globes to wwant my teeth dowwn here," you say.

He wraps one hand around the crook of your horn and bends you backward until you think you're going to lose your balance. "You're a smart kid," he says. "You wouldn't try any caliginous shit with me." He doesn't even make it a question, the total arrogant fuck.

He also doesn't let you move until you say, "Yeah, okay, you're right."

Then he pulls you back upright, pulls you _close_ , until he's practically rubbing your face up against his bulge. "There you go, kiddo. Gimme a kiss."

Fuck him, you can do better than that.

You kiss the peak ridge of his bulge, a slow press of your lips, and then you lick it, dragging your tongue up the length and curling it against each ridge in turn. You watch his face the whole time, and he's staring at you like he wants to just split you open and devour you. Your nerves jangle and hum and sing, the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, and you try not to let yourself squirm too much under that stare.

"There you go," he says, and his voice is doing just a hint of the growly purr it had when he was buried to the base in your nook and telling you how tight you were. "Such a kinky little brat." He leans back against the wall of the trap and takes a wider stance. "Now put that manicure to good use, hmm?"

For a second that really does catch you off-guard. Static sort of shudders through your thinkpan while you process the idea, and then you're reaching upward, running your smooth-clawed hand up the inside of his thigh. You find his soft-swollen globes surrounding the damp orchid-petal folds of his seedflap, and he hisses when you touch the still-closed slit in its center. If he didn't still have a grip on your horn you might try stroking that spot a little more just to see what it would do to him—you know some people get off from just that stimulation, and you've heard of but never actually watched fetish porn with seedflap sounding—but you don't want to piss him off.

You let your fingers slide further back, instead, and his nook is _wet_ , slick and warm. You slip two fingers up into it, burying them to the knuckles, strange soft textures. He growls with pleasure, arching his hips and grinding his bulge against your face. "More," he says, tightening his grip on your horn. "It's going to take a lot more than that."

"All you havve to do is ask," you say, because you really just can't let him think he's overwhelming you. You can't. You slip a third finger into his nook easily, his fluids slicking your hand. A few more strokes and you're adding the fourth—how much of you can he _take_? He feels so soft and hot inside, and the smell of copper is making you dizzy.

He's purring, growling, rocking his hips, and you lap at his bulge a little but you're pretty sure that both of you are more focused on what your fingers are doing inside him. He wants you to make him spill, you're almost sure. He's letting you stick your fingers in him so—"Push," he demands, and he's rocking down onto your hand as you try to comply, and you feel him stretch and stick and then slide, the moment when your knuckles sink into him and then your hand is folding over itself, curling into a loose fist and you're _wrist-deep_ in his nook.

"Oh fuck," you're saying, counterpoint to his hungry sounds, "oh fuck, oh," and it's a terrible angle which means your arm feels shaky and weak as you try to move, but also you're a little weightless with disbelief and all the blood rushing to your bulge. He's riding your hand. You twist a little and flex your fingers and he clenches down around you, snarling.

You lap at the shaft of his bulge, press your lips to the peak ridge and suckle, and the curses he pants out make you feel like a god. Your bulge and your nook both ache for attention but you're pretty sure you don't have the coordination to touch yourself and keep this up. You squirm at his feet instead, this lowblooded landdweller adult who rented a room to fuck you in, who pulled you into his lap and made you ride his bulge until you came from it, who's now using your hand and your mouth like he's not going to stop until, oh fuck, you know why he wanted to do this in here, with you on the floor, and it's got nothing to do with not making a mess.

But you don't protest, and you don't try to get away. You don't want to piss him off, partly, but also this is _dirty as hell_ and that continues to set everything south of your waist on fire. You could be a fucking porn star right now, that is how hot and how filthy this is—and if some of the noises you're making against his bulge sound a little like pleas, well, that's totally because you're putting on an act for him, right? Almost totally.

"Nnnn, fucking kinky little—highblood brat," he says, and you would almost believe your wrist is going to bruise. "Slumming it, huh? Panting for a chance to be my pail?"

You make this noise that you're afraid comes out as a whine, because that accusation kicked your libido right in the teeth in the best way, and his grip on your horn gets so tight it hurts and then his nook is rippling around your hand as his seedflap unfurls and _drenches_ you in his genetic material, chin-chest-stomach-bulge, painting your whole front golden brown.

When the pulses of his inner muscles stop, he pulls you back from his bulge, smirking down at you. You squirm, your cheeks burning from what a sloppy mess you are but your bulge and your nook both desperate for attention. "Please," you say, and that makes his smirk get wider. "I wwant another go too."

"Pull out, kiddo," he says, rolling his hips, and you do; the fluid coating your hand is the color of honey.

He gets down on his knees with you and leans in to kiss your mouth, rough and careless with his fangs. You cling to his shoulders, nipping at his tongue. He runs one hand down your chest, slicking through the mess he's made of you; his palm skates over your bulge all too briefly and then he's pressing back and into your nook. He's getting his genetic material _inside_ you, and you whimper again. He tells you that you're kinky, but what does that make him?

You reach down to take hold of your bulge, but he grabs your hand. "My way," he says, pushing you onto your back, pinning your hands over his head.

"Please," you say again, even though he's complete trash and shouldn't dare treat you this way. "Please, I wwant more than this."

"Don't you worry," he tells you. "I'm going to take good care of you." He bites your lip, your jaw, your fin, the slope of your throat; he's definitely going to leave marks and you think he might be drawing blood. Your hips arch up off the floor of the trap, and he presses his fingers up against the raw spot inside your nook that makes you see stars. You pant for breath, thrashing under him, and he presses the pad of his thumb right into the center of your seedflap, rubbing flat against the slit.

It's way too sensitive, makes you keen helplessly in your throat, but your thighs are spread by his body and your wrists are pinned by his grip and you're just held open for him, nowhere near strong enough to stop him from undoing you just the way he wants to. Your whole world ratchets down to the nerves caught between his thumb and his fingers, your helplessness and the singing tension in your body and then the overwhelming, wracking climax that goes on until everything goes dark.

When you recover enough to have some idea which end is up, he's pulled out of you and is watching. You can't read his expression, but when you smile weakly he smiles back. "You okay?" he says. "I was starting to worry I was too much for you there."

"Nevver," you say. You claw yourself up to a sitting position, trying not to wince too much.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You still up for more?" he asks.

"Sure," you say, lifting your chin so you can look him in the eyes. When are you going to get a chance like this again? "I can fuckin handle it." You reach for the hot water tap to turn the water on in the trap. He stops you.

"Might as well stay messy," he says, smiling so you can see all the points of his fangs. "It's only going to get sloppier from here."


End file.
